


A Decent Proposal

by Magnolia822



Series: Ineffably Kinky Husbands (Good Omens Kink Meme Fills) [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale isn't much better, Courtship, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Virgin Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 10:30:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20581046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822
Summary: While dining with Aziraphale at the Ritz, Crowley receives a golden surprise in his champagne. Our soft demon is elated—until he realises the ring isn't for him. Written forthis promptover at the Tadfield Advertiser.*This is a stand-alone fic catalogued as part of a series of kink meme fills*





	A Decent Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> No copyright infringement or offense intended, etc.
> 
> Thank you to Silly Goose for the beta and plot help, as always <3

The Ritz was crowded for a Tuesday evening, but with the help of a small miracle Aziraphale ‘didn’t think anyone would notice, really,’ Crowley found himself seated once again across from the angel, as he had once a month since the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t. It had become a sort of lavish tradition, and since this evening marked the one-year anniversary of that day on the tarmac in Tadfield, they thought it only suitable that they have the finest champagne and caviar in the house.

“Very good, sirs,” said the server, giving them both a slight bow as he collected their menus.

A slightly awkward silence descended. Crowley looked at Aziraphale. It had been a week since they’d last seen each other. Crowley knew that the angel had been busy at the bookshop, or so he’d said, but Crowley himself was finding it increasingly difficult to fill the time. He tended his plants, of course, and went for long drives in the Bentley, but other than that, these stretches of time apart seemed increasingly meaningless. He found himself, more often than not, moping and wondering when Aziraphale would ring, but of course he would never mention his plight to the angel, not in a hundred years, or a thousand, or six thousand, he thought wryly.

“Beautiful night isn’t it?” said Aziraphale.

“It is,” Crowley murmured.

“You look well.”

“Hmm?” Crowley realised he was staring, leaning forward on the table, as though in so doing, he’d compel Aziraphale closer by will alone. He overcorrected and sprawled backwards instead, his tight black pants tugging at his lean thighs, and Aziraphale gave him a nervous smile.

At the next table over, two men, both attractively attired, were holding hands. The older one, dark and dashing in a dove-grey suit, laughed at something his lover said, throwing his head back with sheer delight. The younger man’s reciprocal smile was almost blinding.

Crowley wondered if Aziraphale could feel the love emanating from the two of them; it practically filled the room. Even he could feel it, and he’d had his ability to sense love ripped from him the day he fell from Heaven.

“What have you been up to this week?” Aziraphale asked, drawing his attention back.

“Oh, you know, been busy.”

“Did you get that bottle of Talisker I sent you?”

“Ah, yes. Good stuff.”

“Have a chance to read any of that Atwood novel? I thought you’d like it.”

“A bit. Thanks again.” He’d read it cover-to-cover, but it seemed too revealing to mention it.

“What else have you been doing?”

“Things—around. Cleaning. Watering. The usual.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, then a faint expression of concern crossed over his features. “Have you been er . . . using your wiles?”

For a moment, Crowley thought he meant sex, and his throat went dry. But of course they never talked about such things, so he was being ridiculous. “No, I haven’t been wiling. Much. Only tempting the ducks to eat breadcrumbs. I’m the paragon of innocence these days.”

“Hmm.”

“And there’s the occasional rare-coin-glued-to-the-sidewalk trick. You know I can never resist that one.”

“A classic.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

And so it continued. There had been a moment, well, several, a year ago, when Crowley had thought something between them might change. He had sensed an opening, a possibility that hadn’t been there before, now that they were free. There had been that moment on the bus, then after it all, walking Aziraphale home from the Ritz, he’d been sure the angel would ask him inside, would cross the space between them.

But the days had passed, and they had settled into a new routine; there were dinners, and lunches, too, and occasional walks in the park and drives in the Bentley. There were films and museum openings, usually ending in a wine-soaked dinner at some fashionable place Aziraphale just had to try. But for all they were closer than ever before, breaching the last distance seemed as impossible as ever.

A new server brought their wine, turning her back to pop the cork. Aziraphale put his napkin in his lap and wriggled in his chair slightly, like an excited puppy. It was a predictable reaction, and terribly endearing, and Crowley bit his lower lip. The wine sparkled and fizzed as it was placed on the table. Once the server had gone, they both picked up their glasses.

“I suppose a cheers is in order,” said Aziraphale, his happy smile back firmly in place. “To a wonderful year? I’ve so enjoyed spending it with you. And having . . . this new freedom.” He leaned forward to whisper the last word.

Crowley cleared his throat and nodded. “Me too, angel.”

They clinked and drank. Crowley took a long, deep sip and noticed something glinting at the bottom of his glass.

At first he thought it was a trick of the light, but upon closer inspection, he realised it was very real, and very gold, and very round.

His heart seized in his chest. “Angel.”

“Yes, my dear? Something wrong with the wine?” All innocence.

Crowley tipped the glass to his lips, draining the rest of it, and then there could be no doubt. It was a ring shining and wet with champagne. He reached in with long, nimble fingers and plucked it from the bottom. He felt his face flush for the first time in a hundred years as he weighed it in his palm, his mind whirling, confused as to how it could be possible they had got here—that Aziraphale could want this. They had never even kissed. Had only held hands one time. Aziraphale was old-fashioned, of course, but he had never given any indication . . .

But hadn’t he, in a million small ways over the years? And Crowley had just been too blind, or perhaps too self-loathing, to see those instances for what they were: love, and not only the friendship kind. A million small instances told of love that filled the heart completely, that made time spent apart feel an utter waste. A surge of affection flowed from Crowley’s palm, where the ring sat, heavy with promise, to his chest, which tingled with the warmth of this unfamiliar, somehow  
requited . . .

Crowley realised he was trembling, could hardly hold himself still. The fact that this should happen today, on what was ostensibly their _anniversary_, well, wasn’t it just like Aziraphale to propose in such a silly, human way, and wasn’t it perfect—

“What is that?” Aziraphale asked. “Is that a—is that a ring?”

Aziraphale’s tone broke Crowley out of his reverie. The shock was plain on his face, undeniable, and the bottom dropped out from under Crowley’s feet. He glanced to the table with the two men: the younger looked confused, the older horrified. Slowly, it all started to come together.

“I’m so sorry,” said the man in the grey suit, leaning toward them. “I’m afraid there’s been some sort of mistake.”

Crowley held onto the ring, too dumbstruck to move.

“Oh, Peter!” the younger man exclaimed. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

“I was,” grumbled Peter. “This damn place. The amount of money . . . I can’t believe they—I’m so sorry, love, I wanted to do this properly. And . . .” He looked from Aziraphale to Crowley, who was slowly coming back to life. “I’m afraid I’ve created a rather awkward situation.”

Crowley finally found his voice. “Not at all,” he said, feeling numb. “I believe this is yours.” He tipped his palm and dropped the ring into Peter’s hand.

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale.

All around them, staff began descending as they realised their error. The manager, a tall woman in stiletto heels, appeared. The server who had opened their wine was red-faced and tearful. Apologies were bandied about, meals comped, and the couple for whom the ring was intended began to celebrate in earnest. Other guests clapped. Through it all, Crowley refilled his glass and drank steadily.

He couldn’t bear to look at Aziraphale. He had never felt so utterly splayed open, so raw. And on top of it all, he was inexplicably angry, though of course it wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault. He was angry with the restaurant, with Peter, was even angrier with himself for that ridiculous display of hope. Of joy. It had certainly been written all over his face. Aziraphale had seen it all, he had no doubt. He was angry about that, too.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale finally said.

“Don’t,” Crowley said coolly, his mask back in place. He was safe behind his glasses, fortified by the wine. Maybe Aziraphale hadn’t seen. Hadn’t felt the love radiating from . . .

“But, my dear—”

Crowley stood from his chair. “You know, just remembered. I have a thing. So I’m gonna head out now, okay? I’ll see you later.” It was almost painful to walk away, but Crowley had to, and he did so slowly in his customary swagger, not looking back. He couldn’t cope with the inevitable apology, the awkward explanations. Couldn’t have his heart ripped out again today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe he should sleep a while first.

An hour later, back in his flat, his phone rang, but he didn’t answer.

***

He did wake up eventually, two weeks later. Still too soon, apparently. The incident at the Ritz was still an open wound, painful to prod at. He checked his messages, and realised his voice mail box was filled with calls from Aziraphale.

“Please, please answer your phone, my dear.”

“Did you miracle your door shut? I can’t get into your flat. Crowley, I’m worried about you. Please call me back.”

“Why won’t you let me—Crowley, what happened—is it possible that you . . . blast it, I don’t want to leave a voice memo about this. Oh, f-fudge. If you don’t call me back this instant I—”

Aside from being pleased that the repelling miracle on his door had worked and vaguely amused at Aziraphale’s swearing, the rest of the content of the messages did little to alleviate his sense of dread. Still, he reasoned, it would be better not to appear too affected by the Incident. He didn’t want to upset the delicate balance of their new friendship. His little locking-Aziraphale-out stunt may have done more to give his feelings away than anything he’d done at the Ritz.

He decided, after a few hours of pacing and shouting at his plants, who’d had the audacity to wilt as he slept, to call Aziraphale back.

“Well, it took you long enough,” Aziraphale said primly once they’d said hello.

“I told you, I was busy.”

“Busy locking me out of your flat? And not answering your phone? My word, Crowley. What if something had happened to you?”

He bit back the urge to say, _Would you care?_, couldn’t bear to be that needy. “Sorry.”

“Can we meet at the first rendezvous point?”

Crowley sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. He did want to see Aziraphale, no matter how painful it might be. And saying no to his angel wasn’t something he had ever been any good at. “All right, angel.”

“I’ll see you there in thirty minutes.”

The day was sunny, clear, and warm. Crowley was the second to arrive at the bench in the park, and he watched Aziraphale carefully as he approached, looking for any sign of what was to come. Aziraphale sat ramrod straight on the bench, waistcoat pressed and starched, legs primly crossed at the ankles. His rosy cheeks glowed faintly in the sunlight, although his expression was harder to read than usual. Crowley’s heart gave a little lurch in spite of himself, and he concentrated on schooling his expression to perfect neutrality as he took the seat next to him.

“Hey,” he said, leaning back and kicking his legs forward, trying for nonchalance or maybe indifference.

“Hello,” said Aziraphale. “Thank you for coming.”

“Ssss nothing,” Crowley said, trying and failing to keep the nervous hiss from his voice. “Wassn’t busy. How’re things at the bookshop?”

“Oh, bugger the shop, Crowley.” Aziraphale turned toward him, his lips slightly wobbly. “And stop pretending that you didn’t run away from me, just when I was starting to . . . hope . . . Is it true that if I had asked you to marry me, you would have said yes?”

Crowley was stunned speechless. “I . . . er . . . ah . . . ngk.’

“My dear, please do be honest with me. Because this fortnight has been very hard for me, distressing, really, and I know neither of us is very good at . . . well, this. Talking about our feelings for each other. And I’m afraid that if one of us isn’t very brave, right now, that we might never really know, even though I suppose now it seems obvious. And I feel a fool, that I never understood before . . . that you wouldn’t see . . . but, I love you, my dearest. I suppose that is what I am trying to say, very poorly indeed.”

“You do? Oh fuck.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s mouth fell open.

“I mean, angel, I love you, too. Was just surprised, is all—in a good way, in a good way.” Crowley scrambled upright, moving closer. His heart had come to life again, beating a thunderous tattoo against his ribcage he was sure must be audible from space. “I didn’t think I was ever going to hear you say it. And I wasn’t brave enough to say it myself and not have it returned.”

“Well, I’m sorry for that, my dear. I’m so sorry. Because I would have—”

“Sss’not your fault, angel. Hey, it’s all right.” With some alarm, Crowley realised that Aziraphale was crying, his large blue eyes glinting with tears. He put an arm around Aziraphale’s back, holding him for the first time.

Aziraphale sighed warmly against his neck, and then Crowley felt his arms, too, and they were embracing on the same bench where they’d sat together hundreds of times, only now it was entirely new. His whole body felt warm, suffused with a happiness he’d never felt before, not even in his most distant memories of Heaven.

“And yes,” Crowley said. “I would have said yes.”

Aziraphale let out a startled sound, half-sob, half-laugh. He pulled away and looked Crowley in the eye. “There’s something in your ear.”

“What?” Crowley frowned at the non-sequitur.

With an impish glint in his eye that Crowley knew only too well, Aziraphale reached into his back pocket and flourished his hand. Then, a second later, something metallic pinged on the ground. “Oh drat,” he said. “Wait a moment.”

Crowley shook his head in disbelief as Aziraphale clambered to the ground and began frantically searching with both hands through the litter under the bench.

“Angel,” Crowley said, unable to hold back his grin. “Do you mean to tell me you just tried to propose to me using magic and then lost the ring?”

“Get down here and help me find it so that I can do it properly.”

Crowley was on his knees in an instant. He saw the ring a second later, a thin gold band partially obscured by an empty plastic bottle. He picked it up, held it out, and cleared his throat. “As you were saying?”

Aziraphale beamed at him. “Sit back on the bench, if you please.”

Crowley did. A few spectators stood near the pond, alternating between feeding the ducks and glancing back towards them. Humans seemed to have a sort of radar about these things, but it didn’t take a genius to interpret the situation on the bench. Aziraphale was on one knee, holding the ring in his hand, which trembled. Crowley was struck again by the awareness this was real; it seemed so much like a dream. He had never imagined them getting married, but now he couldn’t imagine anything else.

“Anthony J Crowley,” Aziraphale said, “you have been my partner for as long as we’ve been here on this Earth. I want us to be together for the rest of our lives, in every way, if you want that, too. Would you do me the honour of becoming my husband?”

“You’re ridiculous, you know,” Crowley said, sounding terribly soft.

“What’s your answer?”

“Yes, of course, yes. Now get up so everyone stops staring.”

Crowley helped Aziraphale back to sit.

“Of course,” said Aziraphale, a little nervously, “you don’t have to actually wear the ring, if you don’t like. I wasn’t exactly sure what would suit. I had two of them made, being a little presumptuous, I’m afraid, but if you think the quality is not—”

“Angel. Put it on me.” Crowley held out his hand.

Aziraphale slid the ring onto his bony-knuckled finger. It was miracled to fit perfectly: a simple gold band with an intricate engraving of an angel feather, entwined by a tiny snake.

“You do realise we haven’t even kissed yet,” Crowley said. “Are you sure you want a marriage . . . a relationship . . . with . . . Angel, you’ll have to let me know what kind of thing you’re looking for here.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale flushed. “Yes, well. I was hoping it would include all of the usual things. The human things, as well.”

“Sex.”

“Yes. I would very much like that, my dear. If you would.”

“Ah—yes, definitely, would like that. But you seemed so reticent this past year, even after the Apocalypse.”

“But I’ve been courting you, you silly old serpent. The dinners? The walks in the park? The gifts? What about the picnic on the beach, with the oysters? Did you really not know?” Aziraphale’s expression was slightly pained.

“Na—no. I didn’t. I’m not good at that sort of thing, angel. Those little subtle hints.”

“A three-hundred-dollar bottle of whisky is hardly subtle, Crowley. Plus, what about you? All of those times you came to my aid, indulged me over the years. I thought it was about time I returned the favour, that you would understand it meant I was ready . . .” He trailed off, laughing wistfully.

They were staring at one another’s lips. Crowley breathed out, felt the pressure of Aziraphale’s fingers against his jaw. He leaned forward. He had never kissed anyone before, but he had seen people do it as a matter of course and imagined this often enough to make his best attempt.

Aziraphale’s mouth welcomed his, warm and open. Crowley was shocked by the immediate slide of the tongue against his own; he had never expected it to escalate so quickly. He moaned and gripped Aziraphale’s shoulders to bring him closer. The contact was doing things to his body, getting him hard and they had barely even got started. He moved his mouth against Aziraphale’s, meeting him with enthusiasm if not skill, trying to keep his weird tongue from being too weird. Aziraphale was making soft, eager noises against his lips, which didn’t do wonders for his self-control. He didn’t know where this desire to take and give back in equal measure came from—whether it was demonic or human or something altogether different. Everything he thought he understood melted in the heat of that first kiss.

Aziraphale was the one to break away, in the end, though their foreheads still rested together. He was glassy-eyed, licking his lips and scratching the back of Crowley’s neck with the tips of his fingers. “Goodness,” he whispered.

They were attracting even more attention. The elderly couple who’d been feeding ducks were regarding them with bemused expressions, and a few teenagers sharing a clove cigarette tittered and smiled. “Congrats, mates!” one of them called out.

“Should we go back to my place?” Crowley said. As trite as it sounded, he’d never asked anyone before, and the thought of what they were about to do sent little thrills of electricity up and down his spine.

“Dear, don’t you think we should wait until we’re properly married?”

Crowley’s mouth dropped open. He closed it again immediately, unsure how to respond. “Well, ah. Sure, if that’s what you—”

Aziraphale bit his bottom lip, his eyes twinkling. “I’m joking, Crowley. I think we’ve waited long enough, don’t you?” ”

“You utter bastard.”

“You did say you liked that about me.” Aziraphale was standing, dragging Crowley up with him.

“But I didn’t know you were funny, too.”

“I’m funny!”

“Not usually.”

“You take that back.”

Crowley wasn’t about to let Aziraphale outpace him back to his flat. He considered miracling them, but remembered the Bentley, which he’d double-parked conveniently nearby. He tugged back against Aziraphale’s hand, not wanting to lose the grip.

“Ah, can I drive you, angel?”

“How fast does your car really go?”

To his credit, Aziraphale barely sweated this time; he did, however, let go of Crowley’s hand to clutch the seat cushion, a loss that Crowley rectified as soon as they’d parked and clambered out of the car. He was pretty sure he was never going to want to let go of Aziraphale’s hand ever again.

Aziraphale seemed to feel the same way. His grip was tight as they rode the elevator—unfortunately along with two other people, neighbors he’d never met. They made small talk with each other as Crowley stood silently behind them with Aziraphale, trying his best not to commit an act of public indecency or blurt out loud he was going to marry an angel.

Finally, at long last, but really only seconds later, they entered the flat, as quiet and empty as he’d left it only an hour before. Seemed too short a time, really, but that was the funny thing about life on Earth, how it could change in an instant.

Aziraphale was taking in the decor with a mix of surprise and disbelief on his features. There were several reasons Crowley had always preferred to spend time in the bookshop, and had never invited the angel back to his. One of them was currently in front of Aziraphale, being inspected quite closely.

“Is this the . . . eagle pulpit from the church, Crowley?”

Crowley tried to seem nonchalant. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

“You guess. You saved it, along with the books, didn’t you?” Aziraphale pulled Crowley closer. “It is rather lovely.”

“Seemed a shame to destroy it. And . . . I like souvenirs.”

“Souvenirs?”

“Well. I had a feeling I wasn’t going to see you for a while, after, so I went back for it. To have something to remind me.” It wasn’t something Crowley had ever thought he would have to admit, but telling Aziraphale now was easy. Plus, he liked the effect his words had on Aziraphale, how they softened his features and warmed his eyes. He had always liked doing things for Aziraphale just for a glimpse of that look.

“Of me? Oh. Oh, that’s very romantic.”

“Wait until you see the wrestling statue,” Crowley muttered under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. So, here we are. You want a tour? You want a drink? Anything you like. I’ve got wine, whisky, no tea I’m afraid. Probably scrounge up some coffee, but we’d have to miracle the cream. I—” Aziraphale pressed a finger against his lips, and he stopped rambling.

“That all sounds lovely, my dear, but maybe after we go to bed, don’t you think?”

Crowley nodded in what he hoped was not a frantic manner.

“And the bedroom is . . .?” Aziraphale continued with a small smile. He moved his hand to cup Crowley’s cheek and then trailed it down, down the front of Crowley’s shirt, stopping just before his waistband. The warm pressure of that hand was enough to reignite the urgency from the park bench.

“This way, this way.” Crowley ushered him down the hall. The bedsheets were still a mess from his long nap, so he miracled a clean, new set just as they entered the door. Aziraphale arched an eyebrow as he took in the huge expanse of black silk, the imposing metal frame. The only other thing in the room, save the bed, was a table, the drawers of which contained several pairs of emergency sunglasses and a bottle of lube. Crowley may have been a virgin, but he had given himself needs.

“You obviously have thoughts,” Crowley said, not without humour.

“It’s very . . . big. You do a lot of . . . entertaining here?”

“Never.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“You’re the only one who’s ever been in here, angel.”

“So you prefer, for your assignations—”

“No assssignantions, Aziraphale. Is what I’m telling you.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale took a step closer, lips slightly parted. “I see.”

“Hope that’s not a problem.”

“Not a problem at all. It’s . . . lovely.” He looked rather smug.

“I haven’t _kept_ myself for you, or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking. Just haven’t ever wanted to fuck a human. And demons are out.” He shuddered, thinking of warty toads and lizards with black eyes. “Angels. Well.” And maybe he had kept himself for Aziraphale. Just a little. “And what about you?”

“Oh. I dabbled a bit in the nineteenth century. Not since then.”

A wave of curiosity and something a bit too much like jealousy rose up in Crowley’s chest. “While I was ssssleeping, angel?”

“It’s nothing for you to concern yourself over, my dear. You are the only one I’ve ever really wanted.” Aziraphale’s hands were back on him again, spanning the width of his hips. He moved closer by instinct, seeking the heat of Aziraphale’s body. “And now that I have you, what will I do with you?”

“Anything. Everything.”

“Oh that sounds very nice indeed.” Aziraphale pressed a kiss against Crowley’s jaw, then another lower on his neck. He started to undo his bowtie and work the buttons of his waistcoat open, but Crowley quickly moved to take over the task.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for too long,” he said. “Let me.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “All right.”

“Lie down on the bed.”

Crowley kicked off his shoes and followed Aziraphale onto the soft black sheets. Aziraphale was flushed from cheeks to neck, and down even further from the hint of skin that peeked from his undone collar. Crowley touched his throat reverently, then willed his shaking fingers to continue with the task at hand, first disposing of the bloody waistcoat, then the shirt underneath. Aziraphale was pale and soft, his stomach pleasingly plump. His chest was covered with fine, blond hair that tapered off into a darker, thin line below his navel. Crowley drank it all in with his eyes, and then his hands, his mouth. He pressed kisses everywhere he could reach, so thankful Aziraphale was letting him explore in this way. He reached the trembling belly, licked his way into the deep navel. Aziraphale laughed breathlessly and ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair.

And then Crowley was there, between Aziraphale’s legs. A substantial bulge filled the placket of Aziraphale’s trousers. Crowley gave it an experimental squeeze, enraptured by the solid feel of it under his palm. He had known, from that brief time in Aziraphale’s body, what effort he favored, but he had resisted the temptation to investigate. Now he had not only permission, but enthusiastic consent, from the way Aziraphale moaned as he watched.

“Dearest,” he said. “Could we move a bit . . . faster, now? I want to see you, too.”

Crowley complied with a snap of his fingers, undressing them both the rest of the way. Aziraphale was clearly not interested in a slow tease, which was fine, more than fine. Crowley reared up on his knees, naked and erect, and submitted himself to Aziraphale’s inspection.

“Take off your glasses,” Aziraphale said. “I love your eyes.”

Crowley slowly removed that final barrier and tossed them onto the floor. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of the ring on his finger; strangely, it made him feel suddenly shy. Aziraphale was watching him with rapt attention, his thick cock resting on his belly. He almost looked hungry, the way he was staring at the lean lines of Crowley’s body, all of his acute angles, his divots and hard places. Crowley realised he had no idea what the hell he was doing, where to even begin with all the things he wanted. It was a bit like falling, a bit like flying, to be held under such a penetrating stare.

Finally, he couldn’t take it any longer, needed to be skin to skin. He bracketed Aziraphale’s body with his own, revelling in the sensation of being together. They kissed and rolled. He was utterly consumed by the feeling of Aziraphale’s hands on his body, Aziraphale’s body against his own, both of them learning the shape of the other. Aziraphale was certainly not passive. Crowley didn’t know why he’d ever thought he would be. He gripped Crowley’s hair tightly and kissed him with tongue and warm, knowing lips. He was soft, so soft, but strong and sturdy. Crowley thrust against him and felt his cock welcomed between those thick thighs, felt his own slickness coat his way, and then something else.

“Angel,” he said, mouth against mouth. “Did you just?”

“A little something to help things along.”

“Ngk.”

“I want you inside of me.”

“Yeah. Okay. Yeah, that would be—” He thrust again into the slick, plush crevasse. Aziraphale held him and groaned, then opened his legs and raised his hips. They were kissing; it was hard to get the right angle. Crowley held his cock to guide it, felt for Aziraphale’s hole with his fingertips. It was so tiny, so tight, in spite of the oil. He had no idea how to fit himself there. He trembled as he pushed his tip inside, gasped as the hot clench of Aziraphale’s body adjusted around him.

It was like nothing he had ever known. He couldn’t stop himself from sliding in, couldn’t stop his hips from working. He bottomed out, as deep as he could go, and still he wanted to be deeper. Aziraphale welcomed him, his body opening inexorably, his arms strong around Crowley’s back. Crowley moved to kiss him again, and the changing position made Aziraphale cry out, throw his head back in pleasure, so Crowley did it again and again.

They both reached for Aziraphale’s cock at the same time. Crowley braced himself on one arm, letting Aziraphale guide the pace, show him exactly what he liked: firm, slow strokes from top to bottom. There was more oil miracled from somewhere; their hands slid together. Crowley thought that next time, he wanted to do things the old-fashioned way, wanted to open Aziraphale up for him until he was gasping for it, then have Aziraphale do the same to him, and then maybe—

“Oh, Crowley. You’re so good. So good—how can it—ah, I love you, my dear. My h-husband.”

Crowley shuddered. His body was suddenly racing to the finish, his mind caught on that one word. He didn’t know why it should affect him so; it was just a human institution, had no meaning for angels or demons.

But they weren’t just that anymore, were they, now that they’d chosen Earth, and each other. Angels and demons didn’t fuck one another, either, and they seemed to be doing that perfectly well. Too perfectly.

Crowley tried to hold back, but he knew it was useless. “Angel. I’m gonna come.”

“Inside me. Please.”

“I’m ah—Fuck.”

Crowley felt his climax rush upon him, pulled up from his deepest parts, curling through his whole body in delicious, aching waves. His hips stuttered, and everything grew slicker, wet and warm with his come. Aziraphale’s hand was flying now, stripping his own cock as Crowley thrust through the last of it and then came to rest inside, still hard, waiting.

“Yes, please. Stay there,” Aziraphale said. “Just so.” He was flushed, sweaty, and beautiful. Crowley watched his face change, his eyelids flutter as his pleasure crested. A warm burst of wetness coated their stomachs, their hands. It was a messy business, Crowley decided, but delightful. He grinned at Aziraphale, who looked slightly stunned. It wasn’t like the angel not to have something to say. He figured that meant it was a job well done. Not bad for a first time, he thought with a certain amount of satisfaction.

After Crowley was certain Aziraphale was finished, he allowed himself to soften and slip out. It only took a glance to know what Aziraphale wanted next, and Crowley snapped his fingers.

Now dry and clean, they lay together on the ruined bed.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, in the tone that meant he was overthinking things.

“Mmph,” Crowley replied.

“Do you think this means we can’t wear white to the wedding?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “You can’t be serious.”

“I told you I was funny.”

Crowley stretched over to pillow his head on Aziraphale’s chest, which was quite a nice place to rest, he decided. It was an attractive feature in a spouse, and Crowley felt he had gotten a rather good deal out of falling, really, if this was the end result. It had been a long wait, but it was all the better for it, perhaps. Now that he had Aziraphale in his arms and in his bed, as well as in his heart, he was going to enjoy him until their time on Earth ran out—and even then, beyond.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm doing a lot of Tadfield Advertiser fills. See one you particularly like and want me to write? Drop me a line on Twitter or Tumblr @Magnolia822. 
> 
> Thank you to [altocello](https://archiveofourown.org/users/altocello) for drawing me the adorable ring you see embedded in the story! Click on the link below to go leave her some love :) 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [{art} untitled, inspired by "A Decent Proposal"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20691569) by [altocello](https://archiveofourown.org/users/altocello/pseuds/altocello)


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